


No Reason

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John moves out of Baker Street and cuts all ties with Sherlock without giving him a reason. Angry but resigned, Sherlock goes on as usual until he finds John in the most unlikely of places and finds a way to get his reason from him in the most unlikely of ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Reason

He’d given no explanation. He’d just packed up one day and left, simply walking into the sitting room with the last of his things in a suitcase and announcing he was going to stay in a bedsit again.

“You don’t need a flatmate to pay the rent anymore,” He’d informed Sherlock, “Mrs. Hudson knows I’m leaving and she’ll check in on you from time to time. Make sure you’re eating. It’s high time I got on with my life.”

“You’ll be close by?” Sherlock had queried.

“No,” John had replied, then turned to leave without elaborating.

“How will I reach you for cases?” Sherlock asked, holding up John’s phone, “If you don’t take _this_ with you?”

John barely glanced over his shoulder, “You won’t. I’m not going on cases anymore and I’ve a new phone. You can toss that one. Or recycle it. Or use it for an experiment. Whatever. I’m… look, I don’t want you to blame yourself. This isn’t to do with you. I’m just… moving on.”

“You’re cutting all ties with me,” Sherlock realized, “Why? I’ve done nothing unusually upsetting of late.”

“It’s not anything you’ve done,” John repeated.

“So you say, but there’s no other reason for you to pack up and move, effectively ending our friendship, working relationship, _and_ your source of adrenaline.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John replied, and he really sounded as if he meant it.

Then he left. Simply walking out of Sherlock’s life without a backward glance. Sherlock had seen signs that he was packing up for a week, of course, but he’d ignored it. There was no reason for John to leave. He was content in their life. He had a steady girlfriend. A _more_ than steady girlfriend, if the newspaper announcement a week later proved anything. John had left him to marry. Sherlock was a bit frustrated by that. He could have just _said so_ instead of leaving Sherlock to think he’d chased him off. Likely the woman disliked Sherlock for some incorrectly perceived reason.

That was the notion Sherlock lived under for nearly three years before he found himself at a crime scene facing John Watson. The retired Captain was looking worse for wear with a rather large bruise forming under his eye from having taken on a mugger. A glance over him showed his divorce, his exercise routine, his lackluster view on dating, and his aching depression. His clothing was fit for hiding in shadows, not luring in women, and the ring on his finger was dented in multiple places and unpolished, and he stank. In short, the man was a wreck of his former self, out chasing muggers in an attempt to give him a reason to get out of bed… or box, as was more likely the case since he was clearly homeless. Sherlock looked him over and shook his head, clucking his tongue.

“One of yours?” Lestrade asked, drawing Sherlock’s glare.

“I should say so,” Sherlock scoffed, “You don’t recognize him?”

“As if I can keep track of all your tramps,” Lestrade snorted.

“He’s not just _any_ vagabond, that’s John.”

“John who?” Lestrade asked, pulling out his notebook and flipping through it.

“John _Watson_ ,” Sherlock replied scathingly.

John winced. Lestrade did a double take and then reached out to tug his filthy hat off.

“Crap on a cracker, John? What the hell happened to you?”

“Homeless war vet isn’t exactly new,” John shrugged, “Sorry about the smell.”

There was an awkward silence and then Lestrade sighed heavily.

“You can come over mine and use my shower, okay?” Lestrade asked, but he was looking at Sherlock for some reason.

“What?” Sherlock asked, “Was I to offer mine? He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to associate with me.”

“Right, so is it alright with you if I have him over?”

“Do whatever you want with him,” Sherlock shrugged, “I’m here looking for clues as to our murderer, remember? John, the mugger you saw. Describe him.”

John launched into a detailed description, including behavior, that almost made Sherlock proud. He took it all in, nodded his satisfaction, and turned to hurry off.

“Wait!” John called out.

Sherlock paused, looking over his shoulder.

“Eat something,” John stated firmly, “You’re too thin.”

“Unless I’m much mistaken,” Sherlock replied, “You’re not a doctor anymore.”

He didn’t see John for several more days. It was as he was returning to NSY to provide his report on the Mayhem Murderer that he trod on the foot of a janitor. The man gave him a disgruntled look and Sherlock did a double take when he saw it was John. Lestrade had secured a job for him, evidently. John muttered a hello, ducked his head, and went back to scrubbing the floors. Sherlock avoided passing him again on subsequent visits.

Their next interaction took place at Lestrade’s flat. Sherlock had shown up to heckle him for cases after he’d found the man not at the Yard. John had apparently been using his shower and stepped out in freshly laundered clothes just as Lestrade started telling Sherlock off for being a pest. Sherlock stared at John in surprise.

“He’s still homeless? I thought he was staying here?”

“No room,” John shrugged.

“He won’t here of it,” Lestrade replied, “Just comes to use the water and wash his clothes. Says his job doesn’t pay enough to put him up in a flat.”

“What happened to his pension?” Sherlock wanted to know.

John winced. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“How should I know? Ask him!” Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock turned to John to do just that but the man held up a weary hand, “It’s not a money issue. I just don’t want to be around people all the time.”

“Then this is mental?” Lestrade asked, his tone concerned.

“No. This is people being awful. I can’t stand them. They all want _in_ and I can’t let them.”

Sherlock nodded, “A smart choice. Last time I let someone in he left to marry a woman who didn’t even bother to stick around. He didn’t even tell me _why._ ”

John winced again. He did that an awful lot. Then he hurried over to the door to leave, his expression one of misery.

“John…” Sherlock tried, but when he hesitated and looked back at him Sherlock found he had nothing to say so he just repeated the question he’d been asking for years now, “Why?”

“No reason,” John shrugged, looking miserable.

He was about to leave again when John squared his shoulders suddenly and headed over to Sherlock with a determined look on his face that was much more reminiscent of the John he’d known for so many years. Clearly _he_ recalled what he wanted to say.

“Okay, I’m only trying this once and then I’m not bringing it up again.”

“Very well.”

“I’m clean. No diseases, no drugs, no fleas.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Will you have sex with me tonight?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to process such a request.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Very well, why should I?” Sherlock asked irritably.

John shrugged, “Because I want to.”

“Not good enough.”

“Because if we do, I’ll tell you why I left.”

“Very well.”

Lestrade gaped at them as Sherlock turned and swished out of the room with John hot on his heels. It might have felt like they were rushing off to a case- there was certainly an air of mystery- if there wasn’t an impending ending to the whole situation. Come morning, perhaps sooner, John would be gone from his life again. That much was certain. Sherlock could tell from the way he angled his shoulders that this was a sort of last request. He just hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it did.

It was fast and needy. Sherlock didn’t expect anything less. John stripped off Sherlock’s clothes and then his own, guiding their every move, and laid Sherlock out on his bed with tender urgency. He kissed him everywhere, top to bottom, petting him as if he were a cat. Sherlock all but purred beneath his caresses, writhing in pleasure that he’d had no idea he was capable of feeling. John’s throaty moans made his toes curl, his every touch made him pant, the heat of his tongue made him sweat, and the rough brush of his legs against Sherlock’s own made his cock throb. Finally John took pity on Sherlock and dropped down to suck him off, swallowing him down without the expert grace that Sherlock had expected. Instead his motions were eager. He seemed to be trying to remember how to perform such an act, but once he’d found his rhythm Sherlock’s eyes were rolling back in his head as he gasped out his orgasm. John swallowed him down without hesitation.

“My turn, you gorgeous thing,” John growled, wiping his mouth off on his arm, “Turn over.”

Sherlock turned over with heavy limbs and presented his body for John’s whim, but he was rather relieved when some cooking oil was applied to the inside of his thighs rather than other locations. John slid his throbbing, hot member between Sherlock’s thighs, moaning loudly, and draped himself across his body. He began to thrust slowly at first, but quickly picked up speed as he licked, nipped, and kissed at Sherlock’s shoulder’s and neck. He was panting and moaning, praising his body, scent, and mind. Sherlock was overwhelmed. This was beyond sexual gratification. John wasn’t just fucking him, he was _making love_ to him.

It all clicked then; John’s sudden withdrawal; his refusal to return, even when things got so bad that he was forced to live on the streets; his failed marriage. John had fallen in love with a man who was married to his work and tried to put him behind him rather than _tell him_ so they could be together. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and bit the pillow beneath his head, angry and hurt that so much time had been wasted. He was so busy fuming over John’s actions that he nearly missed the man’s pleasure.

“Oh, that’s perfect. Squeeze my cock you beautiful, gorgeous, _oh fuck!_ ”

John stilled as his seed pulsed out, spilling onto the bed beneath them. He moaned and even whimpered as his pleasure left him a trembling heap across Sherlock’s body. John’s breath was shaking then, and Sherlock knew he was right when he felt a tear hit his shoulder, but John was quick to roll free and scramble for his faded clothes.

“Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“You promised to tell me why.”

“If you haven’t figured it out by now then my spelling it out won’t help you.”

“You haven’t got anywhere to go.”

“I’m not sleeping upstairs.”

“Then don’t.”

“My tent is as good as the couch.”

“My bed is better.”

“You won’t be in it. You’ll be pacing and playing the violin and…”

“I’m tired. Stay.”

John laughed, his tone bitter, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m hungry, let’s have dinner?” John offered, “I’m sad, let’s have dinner?”

“You’re referring to The Woman.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“What has she to do with this?”

“She’s the only one who held your interest for more than a damn second!” John fumed, turning on him with his pants halfway down his thighs and his cock still dripping.

“You held my interest for years.”

“No. I held my _tongue_ for years! Not you. Never you.”

“You could have.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You can.”

“I… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too old. Too tired.”

“Good. We’ll just have to retire together, then.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So is the idea that you’re old and tired. You chased down a mugger not long ago. Give up your silly job mopping floors and let’s play the game once more.”

“This isn’t a game to me.”

“No,” Sherlock stated firmly, “It isn’t.”

John held fast for a moment, but then his resolve cracked. He sighed and shimmied back out of his pants. He crawled beneath the lifted covers and Sherlock urged him closer until his face was pressed beneath his chin.

“You smell good,” John whispered.

“So you said,” Sherlock smiled, “I imagine I do compared to the company you’ve kept of late.”

“You’ll grow bored of me.”

“Oh John. Never.”

 


End file.
